


Brooklyn in Summer

by RosiePaw



Category: Captain America (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The number of fics in which Tony Stark assumes that Steve Rogers can't possibly be gay because he grew up during the '30s and '40s annoys me.  A genius should know better.</p>
<p>Mild warning: this fic focuses on the beginnings of sexual/romantic attraction between a youth in his mid/late teens and a man in his mid-twenties.  If that's your definition of "underage" and you're squicked by it, please go read something else.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Brooklyn in Summer

**Author's Note:**

> The number of fics in which Tony Stark assumes that Steve Rogers can't possibly be gay because he grew up during the '30s and '40s annoys me. A genius should know better.
> 
> Mild warning: this fic focuses on the beginnings of sexual/romantic attraction between a youth in his mid/late teens and a man in his mid-twenties. If that's your definition of "underage" and you're squicked by it, please go read something else.

Brooklyn in summer sizzled with a heat that the occasional breeze blowing off the East River did nothing to dispel. The tar used to patch street repairs melted and bubbled in the heat. Kids opened fire hydrants and ran shrieking through the resulting blast of water while people in the surrounding tenements griped as their water pressure dropped. The hydrants were temporarily abandoned, though, when the Good Humor man came along with his pushcart.

When the sun dropped low enough to cast the tenements’ stoops into shade, people gathered to sit and talk, trading neighbourhood gossip, baseball scores, news of the war in Europe, speculation as to whether or not Roosevelt would get the US involved. Older folks who remembered the Great War shook their heads, but many of the younger men liked the idea. Jobs might not be as scarce as they had been a few years before, but there still weren’t enough to go around. Too many young men found themselves idle and restless.

Brooklyn in summer played heck with Steve Roger’s asthma. Any kind of exertion seemed to bring on an attack. "Take it easy," Bucky told him over and over, "Just take it easy and you’ll be okay."

Fine for Bucky to say. Bucky had had a stroke of luck and found himself some construction work, the type of thing that Steve wouldn’t have been able to handle even if he _could_ breathe. Which too many days, he couldn’t.

He spent most of each day indoors, sketching. Sometimes he’d draw scenes from his imagination, sometimes scenes from the street life he saw from the window. Later in the afternoon he’d take his sketch pad out on the stoop. Hardly listened to the conversations around him, he watched and drew, trying to capture the dance of facial expressions, hands and bodies that often said as much as people’s words.

"You’ve got a good eye, kid."

Steve jumped – he hadn’t realized anyone had been watching him. The man who’d addressed him was a stranger. Despite the "kid," he couldn’t have been any older than his mid-twenties. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed and hardly taller than Steve. Light in build, but his shirtsleeves were rolled up in the heat and his bare forearms displayed plenty of wiry muscle.

"May I?" asked the stranger, indicating the sketch pad. Steve handed it over. The guy flipped through, pausing now and then as if to study a particular detail. Then he stopped completely.

"Okay, this here – what are you trying to do here?"

"Oh, uh, well, you know how the heat makes things shimmer just over the pavement? I was trying to draw the shimmer. I haven’t got it right." Steve looked the guy in the eye. "Yet."

The guy grinned right back at him. "It’s a tricky effect to capture. Believe me, I know."

"You draw?"

"Yeah, ever since I was a kid. I’ve sold a few pieces, hope to sell a lot more someday. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m guessing you’re self-taught?"

Steve felt his face heating. "No money for lessons. My mother supported us after my father died – she’s a, uh, she was a nurse. I mean, we had enough, but..."

"But no extras and I bet the Depression didn’t help any, am I right?"

Steve nodded.

"Would you _like_ to have lessons?"

"I don’t have..."

" _Free_ lessons. Look, kid, I was your age once, except I was lucky enough to have advantages you don’t. You’ve obviously got talent, but you need exposure to a wider range of materials and techniques. I can give you that _and_ I can introduce you to some people I know. Sort of like, passing the luck along, you might say."

Okay, it might have been a con, but Steve couldn’t for the life of him figure out _how_. And he liked this guy, with his dark eyes and his bright grin.

"Yeah, okay – thanks! Uh, when do we start?"

The guy laughed. "Not right this minute, tiger! I’m renting a room from Mrs. Rabinowitz on the next block, three doors past the corner above the dry goods shop. You know where I mean? Good. So... afternoons at one? Starting tomorrow? That work for you?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Hey, drop the ‘sir,’ it sounds like you’re talking to my father. The name’s David Barrett."

"Steve Rogers." Steve wondered if he should offer to shake hands, but then Barrett offered _his_ hand, so they did.

"I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Steve."

***

Barrett had grown up in Connecticut, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about his family. He had some kind of job that involved working evenings and nights, but they didn’t talk about that either.

Mostly they talked about drawing, about perspective and shading, about different kinds of surfaces, about pencil and charcoal and pastel and chalk, about still lifes and portraits and landscapes. They talked about the difference between seeing and observing and the difference between recording what was observed and creating something new. They talked about telling stories.

For long periods, they didn’t talk at all. They drew, with Barrett leaning in over Steve’s shoulder periodically to see how he was getting on, sometimes so close that Steve caught a whiff of his sweat.

"Yeah, that’s good... No, your strokes need to be stronger here, you need to get a bit of an edge on them."

"That’s what I’m _trying_ to do, it just won’t..."

"You need to change the way you’re holding that, here, look at what I’m doing, no, don’t angle your wrist that way, that’s it, no, okay, _here_." And Barrett placed his strong, warm hand over Steve’s to guide it.

It was like an electric shock. Steve jumped a little, and Barrett jerked his hand back. "Hey, I’m sorry!"

"No, it’s fine, you just, uh, startled me."

Barrett looked doubtful.

"No, really, it’s fine. Show me again?" 

So Barrett did.

***

"Hey, is that a new sketch pad?" It was Sunday, so Bucky was off work.

"Yeah, Mr. Barrett gave it to me."

Bucky frowned. "Who’s Mr. Barrett?"

"He’s an artist, he lives above Mrs. Rabinowitz’s dry good shop, he’s giving me free drawing lessons."

Bucky frowned harder. "Who says you need lessons? You’re already good."

"Thanks, pal, but I’m learning all kinds of stuff."

"For free."

"Bucky, it’s not like that. I mean, what’s he gonna do? Steal my money? I haven’t got any. I don’t know anyone who could afford to pay ransom if he kidnapped me. And I’m not a girl so he can’t sell me into white slavery. This isn’t a con. Barrett’s just a really nice guy - I think I remind him of when he was a kid or something."

"’When he was a kid’... Steve, how old _is_ this guy?"

"Not old. Maybe, I dunno, 24? 25, tops."

Bucky still didn’t look happy. "Steve, you watch yourself around this Barrett guy, okay? Just because you can’t figure out what he’s up to doesn’t mean he isn’t up to anything."

***

"Bucky thinks you’re going to sell me into white slavery."

Barrett raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Nah, not really. He’s just thinks it’s his job to protect me."

"Does he have to? Protect you?"

"Uh, sometimes. In fights."

"Fights."

"With bullies."

"You get bullied and fight back."

"Sometimes. Sometimes I see other people getting bullied, so I tell the bullies to lay off and that starts a fight."

"I’m beginning to sympathize with Bucky," Barrett said dryly. "So, you and he are...?"

"Like brothers, I guess. We look out for each other, we do things together. He keeps setting us up on double dates."

Barrett leaned forward, looking suddenly more interested. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Steady? Nah. Bucky meets these girls and they have friends so Bucky gets them to bring their friends along." So I won’t feel left out, thought Steve, but he didn’t want to _say_ that.

"Sounds romantic." Barrett’s dry tone was back.

"Romantic like in the movies? Hardly. Most Bucky tries to chat up his girl while me and the other girl listen. I’m not, well, I’m not anyone’s idea of a romantic movie hero."

Barrett stared, then seemed to come to a decision. "Steve, stand up a minute."

Barrett moved the chair Steve had been sitting in nearer the window. "All right, now sit down – no, wait, that’s not right, stand up again – okay, now sit down, no, you should be holding something – here, here’s your sketch pad..."

Steve was mystified but amused. "You want me to draw something?"

"You can do anything you like as long as you remain seated in that chair with your eyes open."

With that Barrett picked up his own pad and a stick of charcoal. For the next half hour or so he worked in silence except for occasional instructions to Steve to turn slightly, hold his head a slightly different way. Steve himself drew sketches of Barrett’s hands.

Finally, Barrett sighed. "This is very rough, it’s not quite what I wanted, but it gives the idea..."

He handed Steve the sketch book.

Steve didn’t know what to say. The man in the sketch looked slender but not frail, young but not clumsy. His gaze – are my eyes really that wide? Steve wondered – was so honest it banished the idea of falsehood, so innocent it refused to allow evil to exist.

He thrust the sketch book back at Barrett, breathing fast.

"I don’t look like that."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Stephen," Barrett replied quietly. Then he leaned forward and kissed Steve on the lips.

Barrett didn’t try to take hold of Steve or get him to open his mouth. He didn’t push at Steve in any way. It wasn’t even all that long a kiss.

Steve was so dizzy he thought he might pass out. It was only when Barrett started to pull away that he realized he’d grabbed hold of Barrett’s shirt to steady himself. He let go, fast, and lurched to his feet.

"Steve, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have..."

"No, no, you shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t... I have to go. I have to get out of here."

"Steve!" he heard Barrett call behind him, but he was clattering down the stairs, he was out on the street. He was trying not to run, didn’t want to kick off an asthma attack, didn’t want Barrett coming after him to help. 

He _walked_ home, walking as fast as he thought he could get away with. And Barrett didn’t follow.

***

Alone in bed that night, Steve couldn’t even figure out if he’d _liked_ it or not. The kiss kept replaying over and over in his mind – the dry, warm press of Barrett’s lips against his, the heat that had bridged the narrow space between their bodies, the mingled scents of two men’s bodies on summer day.

He tried to imagine kissing a girl that way, but none of the girls Bucky had introduced him to would come to mind. He tried to imagine kissing _Bucky_ that way, which – ugh!

Apparently whatever he was feeling, it was specific to Barrett.

And it wouldn’t go away. When he resolutely tried not to think about Barrett’s lips on his, Barrett’s lips... slipped. Onto other parts of his body. His neck. His shoulder. His... chest? Okay, wait, stop, if he were in Barrett’s room he’d be wearing clothes, right? But then he remembered Barrett’s hand touching his and suddenly it seemed very, very possible that same hand might unbutton his shirt, slide it off his shoulders, push up his undershirt... 

Oh, darn it, now his body was reacting and what was he supposed to do about that? Not that he had no idea at _all_ what to do, it was just that the ideas he had were the very same ones that Father O’Reilly had clearly designated as sinful, not to mention unhygienic. Potentially dangerous, even. How would he be able to draw if he went blind?

If it were winter this would be easy – all he’d have to do would be to open the window and lie on top of the bedcovers a while. He’d probably catch pleurisy or pneumonia or something, but at least one problem would be solved.

Unfortunately, it was summer. The air was thick and sultry against his skin. Even the undershirt and boxers he was wearing and the thin sheet he lay underneath were too much, he would have been too hot even if he’d stripped them all and lain... Okay, no, no nakedness, not thinking about being naked or about Barrett’s lips or about Barrett’s lips on his naked...

Goshdarnit all to heck!

***

Steve couldn’t go back to Barrett’s the next day - or the day after that. He didn’t know what to say. He was scared of what he might _do_.

It was in fact several days before he forced himself to climb the back stairs behind the dry goods shop.

"Hello? Mr. Barrett? It’s Steve Rogers. Are you... Oh! What the – what happened to you?"

David Barrett peered at him with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut and grinned painfully through his split lips. His face was a mask of lacerations and abrasions. The stiff way he held himself suggested that his body might be in even worse shape.

"I got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, kid. Specifically, coming out of the wrong bar at the wrong time."

"Did you tell the cops?"

Barrett’s grin faded. "Believe me, Steve, the cops know. They were, as you might say, at the scene of the crime."

"You mean they did this. You mean the cops acted like a bunch of bullies."

"No, kid," Barrett said gently, "I mean the cops were enforcing the laws."

Angry, embarrassed, Steve looked away from Barrett – and realized that the room was almost empty. A suitcase and a trunk stood next to the bed.

"You’re leaving!" Steve blurted.

"Mrs. Rabinowitz wants the room for a nephew. Or maybe it was a cousin. A seventh cousin seven times removed, something like that."

"She’s throwing you out."

"She has to maintain a good reputation if she wants to keep customers coming to her store."

"How can you not be angry about this?" Steve yelled.

The moment of ringing silence afterwards stretched on too long.

"I _am_ angry," Barrett said finally, "But I don’t want you to be. You’re young and this isn’t your fight. Bucky can’t protect you if you get mixed up in this one."

"You don’t know whether it’s my fight or not," Steve shot back, "I know you don’t know because _I_ don’t know yet, and now I’m not going to have a chance to find out."

Barrett looked startled. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. When he spoke, his voice was soft. 

"Thank you for that, Steve. The only thing I really regretted was... making a mistake with you."

"It wasn’t a mistake," Steve muttered. "Just because I wasn’t ready doesn’t make it a mistake."

"I get that. Look, you’re going to have other chances to figure things out and learn more than you know now. It’s like your sketches. You’re already good, but you’re going to get _better_. Someday you’re going to do amazing things. And Steve? Steve, look at me... Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t be a hero."

Steve’s mouth was dry and his heart hurt, but he looked Barrett in the eye and said, "Don’t let anyone tell you that, either."

And then, just as Barrett was saying, "Would you like...," Steve blurted, "Can I have..."

Barrett smiled warmly as he reached for a manila envelope sitting on the dresser. "I hoped you’d want it. I set it aside – wasn’t sure if I had the nerve to drop it off myself. I thought I might have to have it delivered."

"I’m here now," said Steve. And then, shyly, "I’m glad I came."

"I’m glad you came, too, Steve." Barrett handed him the envelope and then, instead of drawing his hand back, reached up to touch Steve’s cheek. His fingers rested there a moment, during which Steve wondered simultaneously whether his heart was going to explode, whether Barrett was going to kiss him again and whether he would have the guts to kiss Barrett back this time.

In the end, though, Barrett’s hand drifted down to Steve’s shoulder, squeezed once and then shoved him lightly towards the door.

"You should go now," said Barrett. "Good luck."

"You too," Steve replied. He was surprised to hear how hoarse his voice was, but that didn’t change anything. He left.

***

"You still taking lessons with that Barrett guy?" Bucky asked a few days later.

"Nah," said Steve, "He moved away."

"Good riddance," said Bucky.

Which decided the question of whether or not to show Bucky the drawing.

***

The US entered the war. Bucky enlisted. After a few false starts, so did Steve.

While he was packing to head out to boot camp, he tried to figure out what to do with the drawing. He was pretty sure that bringing it to camp would be a bad idea, but he had no one to leave it with. He hated the idea of destroying it.

In the end, he took it to the Brooklyn Public Library and hid it inside the pages of the oldest, dustiest book he could find. He figured it would still be there when the war was over. He could come back and get it then. 

If he never came back, well, sooner or later someone else would find it. But by then Steve Rogers would be gone, and it wouldn’t matter anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> The name "David Barrett" (but nothing else) is borrowed from a gay WWII veteran interviewed in the documentary [_Coming Out Under Fire_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109462/). The documentary is based on Allan Bérubé's book, [_Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II_](http://uncpress.unc.edu/books/10194.html).


End file.
